


A Secret Hiding in the Open

by Naamah_Beherit



Series: The Journey of a Thousand Miles [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, a truly lame excuse to use Valarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7860463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naamah_Beherit/pseuds/Naamah_Beherit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No road is more difficult than the one to the self-discovery; and what Mairon thought to be the end of his journey, turns out to be just a beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to **Vampiric_Charms** who's been willing to have a look at this and provided her input on certain parts of the text I was unsure of. Much obliged!
> 
> The title has been borrowed from one of the songs by Hammock.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

_Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.  
_ Carl Jung

 

 

Nessa danced in the light of the Two Lamps, and the necklace she was wearing glittered as if made of stars themselves, a filigree masterfully wrought of silver and moonstone which caught the light and reflected it a thousandfold brighter.

“You truly outdid yourself this time,” Aulë told him, his eyes full of appreciation. Mairon looked at him, smiled and nodded his acknowledgment, letting his pride swell pleasantly within him. It brought him joy, that sense of achievement and conviction of exceeded expectations. After all, every Maia of Aulë could craft well.

He, he would never let anything short of perfection leave his workshop.

“Thank you, lord Aulë,” he finally said, taking a sip of a sweet juice from his goblet. Too sweet to his liking, but there was absolutely nothing else to drink and if he were to remain here as was expected of him, he needed _something_ to busy himself with. Pretending to drink at least saved him from the necessity of talking.

He dreamt of being able to return to his forge. Better yet, to depart on yet another journey in search of materials. He had spent his last gems on Nessa’s necklace.

“You should teach the others this technique,” Aulë said, and it sounded like an order rather than a request. “It would be a shame if you did not.”

Mairon sighed and swirled the drink inside his goblet. “I have shown Curumo,” he answered, “but he is too impatient with silver. The others... well, everyone has mastered a different craft, so I do not really see the point in forcing them to learn something new.”

“Choose at least two and teach them,” Aulë commanded dismissively and focused his eyes on Nessa. “Marvellous. I am glad to have you amongst my Maiar.”

Mairon’s voice got caught up in his throat.

No one had noticed. Not even he, the Great Smith, who should have been the first to do so. Mairon had walked amongst them with his mind to himself, cut off from the rest of the Maiar, separate just like they had been before Eä, and no one had realised. Just like _he_ had said it would be.

He wondered sometimes what he would say if his situation were brought to light. Would he pretend to be unaware of it? Would he apologise even though that decision had not been his own? Would he ask to have this reversed even though he did not want it to change?

He had grown accustomed to the solitude of his own mind and the comfort of his own thoughts. Even the silence was... pleasant, in a certain way which required time to learn how to appreciate it. The silence made him turn his attention to Arda and attune his mind to its whispers, to crystalline songs of jewels hidden in rocks, and to subtly flowing odes of veins of ore beneath the ground. He had learnt how to kindle his fire according to his will, to shape and embrace it until sometimes he was nothing else but flames.

In his elation, a gaping hole in his mind where a connection to a Vala should have been, seemed almost... irrelevant.

“And I am happy to know you are satisfied with my work, lord Aulë,” he said after a while, his eyes not leaving Nessa for a moment. He needed to make another version of that necklace, he decided. And keep it. Initial sketches were not enough.

“Of course I—ah, Manwë!”

Mairon risked a sideways glance and quickly focused his gaze on his goblet as he noticed the crowd parting seamlessly before a tall Vala who was so rarely seen outside his halls, preferring the company of his spouse and their Maiar. Few had met him, even fewer had ever interacted with him. Mairon never had and never wanted to.

He should go away. He should devise an excuse of some kind and beg Aulë to let him leave. He should—

He could not. No one departed from Manwë’s presence unless given leave. So he stood there, trying to appear as little and inconspicuous as possible, and hoped that whatever reason made the King of Arda seek out Aulë, it was something trivial and brief. He had that sickening conviction that if there were a Vala able to notice his state, Manwë was just the one. It made him queasy.

“Aulë,” Manwë greeted the Great Smith once he approached and his voice was like a breeze over a meadow, soft and delicate. “I have come to offer my sincere compliments. This is an exemplary craftsmanship you have provided us with.”

Mairon felt his fire grow cold within him.

“I delegated, to be honest,” Aulë laughed and put a hand on his shoulder. At that moment, it seemed to be heavier than the world itself. “Mairon here was the one to take on the challenge.”

 _Damn me to the Void and back_.

“Mairon,” Manwë repeated his name as if getting used to a word he had never heard before. “The Admirable? Well, it seems that he lives up to the name you had given him. I congratulate you, Maia of Aulë. Your work is extraordinary.”

Mairon _had_ to react to that, no matter how little he liked that prospect, so he raised his head to look at Manwë before answering and found himself speechless.

Those eyes. Those were _his_ eyes, icy blue and ancient to a point of timelessness, piercing and all-seeing. The shape of Manwë’s face was more subtle, his features almost delicate and eerily peaceful, his silvery-white hair falling down his back made his entire form almost glow in the light of the Lamps... and yet there _was_ some disturbing resemblance.

_How can you have his eyes?_

“Thank you, Lord Manwë,” Mairon managed to utter and bowed his head, even though all wanted to do was disappear. “It means a lot to be appreciated. It does not happen oft that two of the Valar espouse each other, thus a possibility to make such an occasion even more memorable is a contribution and craftsman could dream of.”

_How can you have the eyes of he who has made me like he is?_

Arda seemed to hold its breath when Manwë’s gaze on him intensified its focus. All of a sudden, the sweetness of his drink no longer bothered him so much. _Composure_ , he told himself as he downed the drink in one swig. That was all that mattered. His own reactions and behaviour. His mind was his own and it was up to him not to let it be known. No one expected anything out of the ordinary, so perhaps as long as he kept up the pretences, he could shape himself into whoever he wanted to be. He could _think_ whatever he wanted to.

“It certainly was the last one for now,” Manwë said indifferently, “so it _will_ be remembered, of that you can be certain.”

“Now that the work is mostly finished, perhaps the Maiar as well will bring us the joy of weddings,” he suggested in a voice he hoped to be humble, trying to hide the thrill of excitement at the mere idea of such celebrations. He would welcome a change of pace, he realised. A pleasant difference that would made in what seemed to be labour never-ending.

Aulë laughed heartily at that, but Manwë did not even flinch. His face could as well have been carved in stone.

“I have never heard of any Maia wishing to espouse another,” he stated with a mixture of perplexity and finality. “Thus I would not expect it to change now.”

“Just because there is none who thought about it yet, it—“

“If Eru willed it,” Manwë cut him in and this time something else could be heard in his voice, something almost dangerous, “it would have happened already. Even more so, it would have happened before Eä, like it had for us. Alas, it did not, so clearly the Music does not entail it. And that is my final word on this matter, Maia of Aulë.”

Mairon bowed his head deeply at that, cursing his treacherous tongue and spirit filled with impossible hopes. Impossible, all he had ever reached for. Impossible, all he had dreamt of. He should have never revealed his thoughts, not when they were so precious to him, but to _them_ they were a travesty exceeding his position.

 _Composure_ , he fiercely reminded himself again. _Learn to control yourself. Learn to speak what is expected of you_.

He used to be skilled at that once, not knowing any better, not knowing any different. And then he had been cut off and allowed to think independently, and it had been both a precious gift and a curse beyond cruelty.

“Forgive me, my lords,” he finally said, his head still bowed reverentially. “I have spoken of matters I know naught about. A mistake that will not be repeated.”

Manwë kept looking at him and a furrow creased his brow. A slight one, almost non-discernible, but it was there – so unusual on a face that was an epitome of serenity. Mairon’s fire furled around itself until it was no more than an ember.

“Worry not, Maia of Aulë, it has—“

And then he sensed it and heard no more.

It seemed as if the world let out a breath held for unimaginable period of time, and he had felt it take that breath, had he not? Moments ago, having mistook it for nothing more than apprehension at the necessity to face Manwë, whilst in fact it had been something else entirely, something of an almost profound importance, and _why_ was he even aware of it? He felt lightheaded, his fire coming to life with a roar and filling him to the brim, and he had forgotten what a marvellous experience it was.

Then the song of far-away flames called to him and his spirit responded in kind, suffusing him with power and a longing so unimaginable that it threatened to rip him apart with its intensity. Had he had a heart, it would have burst with emotions he could not comprehend, emotions that left him dizzy and bewildered at their discovery. They clouded his mind and demanded attention, posing questions he had no answers to. And the simplest and yet the most difficult was, _Why?_

Why did he feel it, even though he had been deprived of that contact the last time he had attempted it? Why did a part of his spirit wanted to bask itself in those flames, taste them and wrap them around himself like a cocoon, even though a much larger, more rational part warned him that he would only burn himself to cinders? Why was his common sense, his rational thought which had in time become a source of pride greater than even his own craft—why was it failing him now?

Only when the initial shock caused by that unexpected arrival had passed, Mairon realised that he had dropped his goblet and let it lie on the ground as he stood frozen in disbelief. All of a sudden, the awareness of Manwë and Aulë looking at him with an indiscernible emotion vaguely akin to worry overwhelmed him with a strength of a tidal wave.

“Forgive me, my lords,” he asked them a second time, keeping his eyes down. He was fairly certain they were burning. “I have... The work has taken too much of my strength. May I be excused? It seems that I need to rest for a moment.”

“You may,” Manwë acquiesced, not taking his eyes off him for a moment. His frown deepened and it sent chills down Mairon’s spine.

“Go,” Aulë added, “and I expect you to _rest_ , not to retreat to the forges or depart on yet another venture of yours.”

Mairon mumbled an almost unintelligible assent and left for the halls, snatching the goblet from the ground before his departure. He got rid of it at some point – he did not remember when and where – and kept on walking without a single thought, choosing a soothing silence of his mind rather than uncertain reality. He let his feet carry him almost to the edge of the Isle of Almaren where he could no longer hear songs and sounds of the celebration, of happiness that tasted like ash in his mouth.

It was one of those fleeting moments in which he truly missed the kinship and shared emotions buzzing in the net of Maiarin minds. A will dissolved had always been a source of comfort, and responsibilities divided and distributed in equal measure amongst many had made life easier to bear. There were no excuses if one were to remain true to themselves, only begrudgingly accepted realisations that what had been reaped, needed to be sown regardless of consequences.

At times he felt like he could take on the world and win. On other occasions, his uncertain steps reminded him of an Ainu learning how to take on a raiment for the first time. But now... now he felt helpless. Purposeless.

He felt those flames burning out there in the world and he could find them— _him_ —if he only wanted to. He felt them singing their songs of power and freedom, and he could almost grasp them if he tried. He dared not to, for he remembered well the torment he had had to endure the last time he had reached out to them only to be rejected. It was the pain of a dream snatched from one’s fingers, of a hope discarded to the winds of time, of something that had almost been his. Could he reach out now? _Should_ he? Or perhaps he ought to rather ask himself if he wanted to?

What _did_ he want, now that he was at that subject?

Mairon groaned in frustration and rubbed his face with both hands, their warmth chasing away some of the weariness that plagued his spirit. An botomless pit seemed to have opened in his mind, swallowing his thoughts and spitting back an endless stream of questions, unvoiced and misshapen and sometimes not even addressed to him. He was unsure at whom he should direct them at all, not when his spirit attuned itself to the song of promises and possibilities. It reverberated through the fabric of Arda, wove itself into the world and sang its unending tune of impersonal appeal—

And then he realised that the song was not meant for him.

A bitter laugh shook his body as that comprehension sank in and he became aware of his own misconception and misplaced assumptions that fuelled an all-consuming torrent of thoughts on which he should have never wasted his time. Or maybe that was just the point of it? Consideration was never ill-advised if it led to any kind of realisation, and one should never scorn thinking unless they had given up their right to it. And then, truly, the decision was simple.

Mairon withdrew.

He forced his fire to collapse on itself and then limited its reach to the boundaries of his self, sealing himself behind an impenetrable barrier of his will. It had been made obvious to him that any form of contact initialised by him was unwelcome, probably because it entailed a possibility of a lack of control on the other’s end, and he grudgingly accepted those terms even though they pained him deeply. And, above all, his unvoiced demands reeked of desperation which was something he did not want to associate himself with.

He would not beg. He would not demand attention. He would not crave what was not destined for him. His pride was both a solution and a lifeline, and he clutched at it with ferocity, enforcing his resolve that he would not pine for something out of reach. There was no question to be answered, he realised. There was only a possibility, and just like all possibilities it also entailed a chance of a failure.

And the failure was not an option.

After what seemed to be an eternity lost between breaths, Mairon felt a quiet song reaching towards him with a gentle inquiry, a contrast between it and the usual deafening crescendo of the flames just as stark as that between nights and days. He smiled to himself... and ignored it.

“Assume not, little flame; learn first,” _he_ had said that fateful day. And Mairon, for once, would heed the advice given.

A subtle tone of amusement reached him in the next wave and he could sense a difference already. It was quieter and shorter, and yet touching his spirit in more ways than the initial passages had done. He was left with a vague impression of an attunement, of layers overlapped with each other, shifting constantly to find a position that would allow them to align properly; but to what end, he did not know. It was, after all, the question that were yet to be asked, so he shut himself from that as well.

Then a symphony of a sincere interest followed and overwhelmed him, ensnaring him in its beauty and force that allowed it to interweave itself with his fire, and for a moment he burnt brighter than ever before, his corporeal body gone in the twinkling of an eye for it was no longer capable of housing his spirit. It was a memory suddenly come real again, a wistful nostalgia after the eternity before Eä, when there had been only space and no time, and the existence without a form, pure and meaningful and without a taint of differentiation. Those had been the times of uncontrolled freedom, he realised as he bathed in the warmth of this sensation and an unspeakable regret filled his mind for a moment. And, just as his spirit almost gave up to the inferno surrounding him, a sudden conclusion came rushing forward and caused him to strain his willpower to a point previously unreachable.

For there was no freedom if he lusted after what was a mist over water and an impression of impossibility, and though the impossible should never be perceived as unattainable where a challenge could be found instead, undertaking on that challenge required preparation. And prepared he was not.

So he plucked his flames strain by strain from those with which they so easily and willingly had entangled themselves, and it surprised him how little effort was needed. He wrapped himself in a physical body anew, his blazing eyes for a moment surpassing the Lamps in their brightness. And then the world around him fell silent. It was a thoughtful silence, one that stretched over the world before a thunderstorm, one that heralded a change possible only when certain circumstances had been met and the terms had been accepted. He did not break that silence, for it marked a beginning and needed time to gain weight in importance and meaning that would resonate in his spirit and engrave itself in every fibre of his being. He leant against a tree and waited, the fire within him twisting and unfurling in a pattern which was unique for him ever since the moment of his creation, when it had been the only difference between him and countless other fire spirits congregated around their

_(father)_

 creator. They were gone now, the others having chosen not to descend into Eä or succumbed to whatever different fate might have befallen them. He kept his flames to himself, safely contained within the bounds set by his mind and body. He could wait as the time meant little to him. Not now, not when he finally realised what he wanted.

And Mairon wanted a choice. Something to think about, something that was only for him instead of a random call exploiting a previously unknown weakness of his nature or a forceful command that would only sway him without mercy or a second thought. And once he had come to that conclusion, resisting became almost laughable in its simplicity. So the stars turned above his head as he waited and it could have been either minutes or millennia before it finally came.

A simple song. An invitation. Nothing more and nothing less. It hung in the air, waiting for his reaction without imposing anything, without any intention to claim him. It just... _was_ there, left up to him to decide what to do next. So he smiled to himself and thought about that decision.

And, in the end, he followed.


	2. Chapter 2

A trail of song woven especially for him led Mairon to the northern regions of Arda, where the light of the Lamps gave way to a cold gleam of the stars on a cloudless sky that caused the land to lie dark and silent, almost neglected when compared with other parts of the world. He had visited the north once and never returned again – resources were scarce and unworthy of the necessity of enduring the cold that gnawed and jabbed at his spirit almost like a living being sensing another one that did belong there.

Mairon sensed the Vala long before he caught a glimpse of him and though he was prepared and aware of his presence, it still shook him to the core. It grew in magnitude until it resembled a point of infinite mass, distorting everything around it and pulling the fabric of reality towards it, setting it aflame only to clutch it in a deadly grasp of the unbelievable cold moments later. When he finally saw the Vala, it was not the flames he was wearing as his form, but rather a swirling darkness, shapeless and everlasting, sucking in every last glimmer of starlight until the darkness seemed to be stretched as far as the eye could see, as if there were no sky above it, only the void empty of all being.

He approached and halted a small distance from the darkness, and he felt its awareness on himself, measuring and evaluating. Defiantly, he kept his gaze on it, unwavering and empowered by a certainty that it had been his choice to come to this place.

And then they swarmed him.

Fire spirits, Mairon realised, astonished at this discovery. Still mostly formless, clad in shadows that shaped their flames into something vaguely resembling bodies, but almost primeval in their simplicity. He cast away his physical form and let his own fire burn brightly in what he envisioned to be a

_(greeting)_

warning that he would not relinquish his ground without a fight. Their presence, though, was befuddling – all this time there had been so few of them in Arda, and now... Now there were many, just like before Eä, and he could not help but to feel a pang of joy at the mere thought of it.

“Let go of him!”

Within a moment Mairon stood alone again, a blinding column of fire in a place where any kind of it was  so unlikely to be found. The darkness before him swivelled and furled inwards to take a form he had not and would never forget, tall  and fair and full of barely contained power. The Maiar retreated behind him, waiting for whatever order he might give, and only one remained relatively close, his attention focused on Mairon for reasons unknown.

“So you have come at last, little flame,” the Vala said in amusement. Mairon gathered his power and reshaped his physical body, the one he had grown most fond of. Whilst the Vala’s hair was so black that it seemed to devour the light, his was deep red, the colour of metals heated up in a forge. His golden eyes met those piercing icy blue ones, so uncannily resembling Manwë’s, and he did not falter.

“You have finally asked, o Mighty One,” he answered. “The least I can do is hear you out.”

“For someone who had once claimed me to be so irresistible,” Melkor began, his lips curved in a sly smile, “you certainly seemed almost unwilling to heed my summons, even though I clearly remember you gracing me with that tale about the language of fire.”

“Perhaps I have simply found something more alluring since that day,” Mairon retorted effortlessly. “Arda is full of wonders, after all.”

The Vala was looking at him for a moment, the intensity of his gaze unnerving and... enticing, Mairon realised with not a small amount of puzzlement. Being a singular object of any Vala’s attention had usually been reserved for failures or misdeeds and it never entailed anything good. But this—this was different. This was a measuring stare, full of curiosity and desire to know more, to _always_ know more about everything , and right now _he_ was this everything. His fire thrummed in his mind, but he held it back, sending forth nothing but the calm look of his own eyes, a simple reaction and almost unimaginable in its boldness. He should have been reprimanded – he would be if he faced any of the Valar of Almaren – he could have been blown to smithereens... and yet there they were, eyes locked and spirits reaching to each other in tentative curiosity and a primal desire to grasp the unknown.

“I had given you freedom,” Melkor finally said, his smile widening, “and you used it to sharpen your tongue. It hardly seems like an appropriate use for such a gift, don’t you think, little flame?”

“I can think of worse,” Mairon shrugged, even though that comment made him want to laugh. “And I have a name, Mighty One.”

“I do not doubt it,” the Vala laughed, the sound of it giving an impression of subdued fires lightening with full force anew. “Let me hear it, then. What is that name of yours you hold so dear?”

He hesitated for a moment. There was power in names, he knew that, especially in those which were accepted willingly. Aulë had given him his name, but in time he learnt to cherish it as if he chose it himself; he let it entwine his flames and transcend his spirit until he was his name and it was himself in turn. Revealing it would only make him even more vulnerable to Melkor’s influence than he already was, no matter how fiercely he guarded his mind.

“Mairon,” he finally said and something shifted in his mind, turned and positioned itself differently. And yet... nothing followed. “My name is Mairon.”

“Mairon,” the Vala repeated, not unlike Manwë had done not so long ago. In his mouth, Mairon’s name sounded like a pyre crackling, like a fiery wind devouring everything on its path, like a never-ending cycle of creation and destruction in flames. “It is a surprisingly fitting name for you. I approve of it, little flame.”

Mairon sighed in exasperation despite his intention not to let it be known how much that nickname irked him. Melkor chuckled at his reaction and so did the fire spirit still standing close to him.

 _I like him_ , he announced straight to their minds. _He should be one of us_.

“Alas, it is too late for that,” the Vala answered as if they spoke of a trivial matter. “I was unfortunate to have lost him to Aulë.”

 _He belongs with us, master_.

“I belong to myself,” Mairon snapped more harshly than he probably should. He felt a strong wave of doubt coming from that Maia at his words, but he decided against revealing more than necessary. “I have come because I wanted to and I will depart if I so choose.”

“Why should I let you?”Melkor asked, his amusement overshadowed by curiosity again. “What makes you think I will renounce my hold on you now that you are here? What prevents me from overpowering your mind and making you mine? I have unmade you once already, rectifying that would be just as easy.”

Mairon felt the Vala’s power advance on his spirit, gentle despite the words spoken so fiercely and similarly making no attempt at carrying out what the words entailed. It was simply there, waiting, observing him and perhaps withholding from making a decision until he reacted. Or perhaps this entire conversation was a test the purpose of which he did not understand. Perhaps he should be afraid.

He was not.

“You will do no such thing, Mighty One,” he said after a long while, his relaxed posture betraying nothing of the uncertainty raging in his mind, “for I think it is not merely thralls you desire. Any Vala can force a bond on a Maia, but there is no challenge in such action. Do you shy away from challenges?”

In a way he did not deem possible, Melkor’s gaze intensified even more, any sign of smirks or genuine smiles replaced with thoughtful consideration. Should that worry him? Mairon was unsure; just like he was unsure of everything else at that moment, a seemingly endless pool of questions and doubts reigning in his mind. Could seeking more be a mistake? Could the unwillingness to settle for what had been given be only a burden to endure instead of a chance to alter one’s life? Could the impossible be truly out of reach?

“I recall telling you to forfeit assumptions,” the Vala murmured.

“Those were not the assumptions, Mighty One, but an observation. You have ceased your summons after my refusal.”

“I was curious.”

“Aren’t you still?”

Melkor approached him slowly, forcing Mairon to tilt his head upwards should he be willing to keep his eyes on him. He was, and his resolve surprised even him.

“Perhaps I am,” the Vala muttered, a ghost of a smile gracing his face again. “But I think you are curious as well, are you not? Discontented with what you have and restlessly looking for more even though you do not even know if there _is_ more. Could it be that your freedom has already borne fruit?”

“I daresay it has,” Mairon replied, unsure anymore where this conversation was taking them. “Is it so surprising? Do you still wish to take it from me?”

He would fight against it, no matter how little effect that would make. Despite the loss which resembled a thorn stuck at the back of his skull, despite the constant danger of being discovered—he would undertake all he could to keep it.

“No... and no,” Melkor answered both questions at the same time, his presence overwhelming and almost intoxicating. “But for now I wish naught of you except mayhap that you departed. I have a dwelling to build, so our conversation, though most enjoyable, will have to be postponed.”

“A dwelling,” Mairon repeated, astonished at that sudden change of subject. He was used to more indirect forms of dismissal as the Valar of Almaren were so fond of their customs and propriety binding everything in its silver chains. He recalled how much work it had taken to build the settlements on the island – mostly Maiarin work as the Valar had been focused more on shaping Arda than their own home – so now the presence of all those misshapen Maiar was understandable.

 _Maybe they are not misshapen_ , whispered a small, treacherous part of his mind. _They simply retained their shape, an everlasting union of fire and smoke, while you hide behind a pretty face taken in honour of the Children that are yet to come._

“What is it you find so surprising?” Melkor asked and this time a plain interest underlay his words.

“That you would decide to build a dwelling just like that, Mighty One,” Mairon answered, opting for a truth instead of a plausible lie. “And that you would need one.”

“Corporeal bodies seem to require it,” the Vala shrugged, “and I have come to stay. Besides, what is there to decide? It is as good of a place as any.”

 _It is cold here, master_ , the fiery Maia grumbled and Mairon found himself inclined to agree.

It almost made him stumble. Why did he even concern himself with this? Why would he care?

“Be at ease, I will remember to construct some kind of a blazing pit for you,” Melkor chuckled and looked at Mairon. It rooted him to the spot for reasons he did not want to consider at that moment. “And what do you want, little flame?”

 _You must be joking_ , he thought, but all he managed was a dumbfounded, “What?”

“It appears all of you entertain various requests for what I should include while building this... whatever _this_ will be,” the Vala said carelessly, as if unaware that his words just turned Mairon’s world upside down, “so what is yours? A pool? An orchard with whatever plants my kin tends to on that lovely island of yours?”

This was a bait, a trick born in that wicked mind... and yet he could not notice anything out of the ordinary. There was a significance that eluded his comprehension. It was just a simple question, but one he had never been asked. And though he dreamt of it, though he imagined countless scenarios, the reality proved to be breathtaking.

“Why do you even ask, Mighty One?” he stuttered, feeling the stares of both the Vala and the fire spirit boring into him with almost physical force. “I am not yours and neither do you appear willing to offer me anything.”

“But I just did, did I not? I offered you a place that would bring you comfort should you ever seek it. What shall it be, then?”

Mairon closed his mouth that seemed hell-bent on hanging agape and realised that he did not even need to ponder on his answer. “A forge,” he said, that single constant in his life becoming a beacon in the storm of his thoughts. “A forge would be nice.”

“Ah, of course, what else could a Maia of Aulë want?” Melkor chuckled in a way that sent a chill of fear down Mairon’s spine. “Very well, a forge you shall have. Will you ever use it, I wonder?”

“I—“

“Now move aside, all of you,” the Vala did not let him finish. “Let me work.”

 _Come, Mairon_ , he heard the other Maia call to him. _Let us do as our lord commands._

“He is not my lord,” he answered, surprised that the Maiar were pushed aside instead of encouraged to get to work. Still, he followed them to the side and stopped there, returning his gaze to Melkor who seemed to be unnaturally focused on something.

 _But he is ours_ , the Maia told him and a simple sincerity permeated his words. That was how the world worked – the Maiar knew their Vala and they were content with their fate. There were no questions, no never-ending inner debates, no gut-wrenching uncertainty. There should be no internal quarrel with his own mind about what he wanted more – his freedom to continue, or his nature to be satisfied by giving it what it needed to survive. There should be no hole in his mind that was going to lead him to a fate unknown.

 _What did you intend to make of me?_ he wanted to ask the Vala which was currently standing not that far away from him, his body relaxed and arms spread wide. _What do you expect of me now? What should I say? What should I do?_

He wanted to ask all those and even more. He did not.

And all thoughts were gone from Mairon’s mind when Melkor began to sing. He wrapped his will in words that had the power to shape the matter or shatter it if he so wanted. He whispered and the world awakened, eager and pliant under his words, ready to bend itself and take whatever form he desired it to. He bound the fabric of reality to his will, grabbed handfuls of it and pulled, the matter coming to life at a single word that had last been spoken long before Arda had been considered ready for the coming of the Children. It was never meant to be spoken, that language of ancient wonders and power; it was meant to be _sung_ with will unyielding which gave it a spark of life of its own. And yet it was widely used, simplified and reduced in form to serve merely as a way to communicate, while it could be so much _more_ for anyone willing to try. Mairon had experimented with it whenever he had had the forge all to himself and despite his hazy memories about the Music, he managed to weave a few spells of his own, his words of power known to no one else. He knew the thrill of joy when metals awoke at his command to bend in shapes no amount of physical strength would ever force them to take, or when the inner fire in gemstones was kindled where there used to be none. It was nothing but first uncertain steps, a story of countless mistakes and rare successes that made his efforts worthwhile, a tale of a new craft he was yet unsure of.

What he was witnessing now, was mastery beyond imagination.

It was not about telling the world simply to do what was desired of it. It was a way to tap into the very soul and matter of the creation, to erase its state and write it anew to fulfil whatever purpose was needed. It was forgotten and forbidden.

It was beautiful.

 _Doesn’t you lord perform such magic?_ the Maia beside him asked with surprising curiosity. Mairon managed to tear his eyes off Melkor and the earth in front of him which was no longer even material.

“No,” he answered, his throat tight and his mind empty except for a desperate craving that left his spirit barren and aching. He experienced power beyond his comprehension and desired it with all his soul. “He does not. I do not know if he ever did. Even the Lamps were mostly made by hand and hammer.”

_Is it better?_

“I...” Mairon’s words trailed away when he realised he had never given it much thought. His own experiments had left him with an inclination to try again, but with infrequent results and nigh impossibility to find time to practise, his expertise was almost non-existent. “I do not have enough experience to say, but physical activities are... pleasant sometimes. When you are exhausted enough, thinking is the last thing you want to do.”

 _Why would you—_ he began, but broke off when the song suddenly ceased. Melkor turned around to look at them, annoyance marring his eldritch features.

“I should have known,” he said in exasperation, “that one _uru_ _š_  would be drawn to another. Take your bonding elsewhere, I am trying to be creative here.”

For a moment, a brief, terrifying moment which left him astounded by his own courage, Mairon considered objecting to that ridiculous assumption. He was not _bonding_ with anyone, never had, and certainly not with this bizarre example of a Maia. And just as quickly as that thought crossed his mind, it was gone, chased away by his common sense that finally seemed to come back to him. No one in their right mind refused a Vala’s command, and that flippant comment was exactly that. Carelessly formed, laced with sarcasm, but the command nonetheless. Perhaps the way in which it had been spoken was even more grave than what he was used to. A righteous anger was easy to notice; nonchalant command, on the other hand, required an effort to decipher its meaning.

“I should go,” he mumbled, taking a few steps away from them. “The festivities have most likely ended by now, my absence will be apparent if I remain any longer.”

“The festivities?” Melkor asked casually, his eyes resting on Mairon. “What are they wasting their time on now?”

“Lord Tulkas wedded lady Nessa,” he answered, surprised how painfully the mere thought of it stung him still. A mirthless, short laugh was his answer and it left terror blossoming in his chest. It sounded like a prelude to a disaster.

“Well look at that, someone was desperate enough to have him,” the Vala snickered viciously, but there was a subtle tone to his voice that reminded Mairon of a shard of ice. Or of upcoming troubles. “Now, you simply must not abstain from such a celebration, but do come back later once I am done. I am eager to find out what you will think of your forge.”

“I—“ Mairon found himself speechless again. “I thought you were mocking me, Mighty One.”

“And why would I do that? I asked what you wanted, did I not?”

All Mairon could do, all his roaring thoughts allowed him to, was nod his mute answer to that question. He was being drawn into something he had no knowledge about and he found himself unwilling to be bothered by it.

“I shall,” he finally managed to whisper and Melkor smiled at that; softly, slyly, as if he were just told a secret he did not expect to be entrusted with. “I shall return.”

“Then I shall be expecting you, little flame.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> uruš (V) - fire


End file.
